


Deuces Are Wild

by CalamityCain



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Sex on a Car
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thor found him, Loki was a battered survivor on a long lonely road. Tying your heart to such a troubled creature can only bring trouble. But Thor is willing to risk it, even if it means changing his ordinary world forever.</p><p>[a Mortals-In-College AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deuces Are Wild

**Author's Note:**

> ( inspired by the Aerosmith song of the same title...except it ended up quite a bit darker than the lyrical content )

 

The white river of your neck stretches on forever as you stare at the sky, smoke trailing from your lips. The lips that say the things no one dares to say. You exist somewhere on the edge of the safe, staid universe I know, and the day my fist hit your face was the best day of my life.

It was your fault, I insist repeatedly whenever the story resurfaces; you, with your regrettable sense of humour that cuts everyone it rubs against – and a marvel considering you were the New Kid. Yet you threw your witticisms around like you’d been among us forever. A few loved you; most immediately loathed you. I was with the latter right till the second we came to blows.

I can still see the memory of the bruise I left on your right cheekbone. The one I nearly shattered. What a pity it would have been to mar such a face. You look like the marble Ganymede that flits between the pages of our art history textbooks. (I flunked art history. The same subject you excelled in. Someday, I promise, I’ll get someone with talent to sculpt you as a nude Ganymede while I watch. And afterwards we’ll fuck in the plaster dust, playing at mythological rape – the lurid inventive crimes only gods get away with.)

 

_Oh, like déjà vu I feel like I've been here_  
 _Or somewhere else, but you've been always near_

The steel of the faded red Dodge is cold against my worn jeans. I wonder at your ability to withstand the biting breeze. A true wild child, you’re buck naked with your hipbones in my palms, mouth on my collarbone, our hair and our limbs beginning to tangle. All too suddenly, painted nails are digging into the car door and you’re whispering ragged pleas, and we are both hard, leaking.

It takes mere seconds to oil you up sufficiently. I slam into you with more force than I intended. Foreplay had been in the plan somewhere but that all flies out the window as you devour me with each fierce roll of your hips. There is nothing graceful about my position – grinding like a beast, jeans around my ankles with shoes still on. But you have enough grace for both of us. It is a reedy strength gained, probably, from years of swaying with the wind: a tumbleweed child, motherless and free, and lost in that freedom. I found you one day at the side of the road after being dumped midway by some thug you’d initially taken up with. (Like your errant father, you have a penchant for poor life choices.) One side of your face was darkened by dried blood. Even then I had felt terribly protective of your beauty, and my hands tightened on the wheel.

I stopped; you climbed into my Dodge; the rest is history. Not art history, but the real, gritty type sculpted in asphalt and unpoetic sex.

It’s a journey we might have travelled before. That’s what you said as you brush the flakes of dried blood away with fingers that fumbled for a smoke. This neverending road that swallows up so many wanderers in its dusty wake but spares a few unlikely survivors – the tumbleweed ones, the lost boys and girls – so they may tumble into the lives of less interesting folk like myself. The Midwestern straw-haired type who wears plaid and plays football and drives faded Dodge pickups.

The type who is never quite prepared for battle scars that run deep. Especially when hidden behind a pretty face.

I calmed the trembling fingers by proffering a cigarette. Slotted it between your lips. You sucked hungrily on the flame of my lighter. Now that I think about it, you’ve always had a perpetually hungry look. As if you’d been starving for something since you were born. A long, red cry into the world that remained unanswered.

 

_It's you that's in my dreams I'm begging for  
But I woke up when someone slammed the door_

 

Your tongue dances with mine now, bringing to our tryst a rhythm of its own. A tongue that spun several layers of lies over your patchwork life before I dug through them and threw you against my kitchen door, and apologized seconds after. Till now I don’t know what you have been and what you are. Junkie, lover, fighter, whore, switchblade saint of the streets. You’re so young, it’s impossible that you could have done the things you did. Yet the silver in your ear brings out a hardness in your eyes that cannot be forged by pretence. In the half-hidden sobs emerging between the other sounds of sex, I hear secrets I dare not uncover. Not now, at least.

Someday when we are safe – someday when you trust me, when you stop fighting phantoms in your sleep – I will take these secrets from you, the splinters that dug deep into your skin because no one pulled them out when you fell. The small things that made you hard and wily and wayward.

I was arrogant before I met you. Arrogant, and sheltered. My palms are calloused and I throw a mean swing, but for all that I am – was – soft from a childhood that belonged more or less on a Norman Rockwell calendar. (My mother still collects those kitschy things. Everyone else in the family hates them.) Being raised on love and home-baked pie gives you roots and makes you strong. It also makes you gloriously deaf to those who were raised on less filling things.

Perhaps it was the crusted blood on your road-weary face that woke me up.

Perhaps it was the glass in your eyes, a sliver away from breaking.

Perhaps it’s the wildness of your smile and how your hands transcend the boundaries of my clothes so easily. The fraying ends of dark hair that frame your cheekbones so perfectly, especially when you’re sleeping.

 

_I love you 'cause your deuces are wild_  
 _Like a double shot of love is so fine_

You throw your head back to howl at the dying sun. Just for these moments, you shed your layers of armour and lies. Every inch of your body is laid open – each bone heartbreakingly vulnerable – and urges me to complete you. To fill you till you’re painfully full. Abuse you even. Yes, your mouth spills such filth in a beautiful velvet growl. Abuse is something you’re familiar with. So I take you roughly the way you wish to be taken. But not as roughly as you demand. Always, I end with soft kisses in the places you hide from everyone else.

I unfold you, tease you, watch your brows fall from their usual cool arches as you curse me and hit me in the manner of someone who makes up for muscle with cunning and cruelly placed jabs.

And then you crush your lips – your very being – against mine. It’s like being hit by a storm wrapped in silk skin. I could spend forever drinking in the rain of such a storm. But the rain will not fall except in meagre trickles. Uncried tears remain uncried. Even when we climax together with nothing left to hide. Even then, you hold on to your in secrets. Only the subtle trembling after our spasms have died hints at what lies within.

So I hold you till you no longer feel like breaking. I will hold you for as long as it takes.

You’ve changed me irrevocably, as I knew you would. Not just by the stain of your breath on my clothes and the Marlboro burns in the dorm room we share. But by plunging into my heart even as you withheld yours for the longest time and making me love you by the sheer largeness of your tragedy. Yes, tragedy. I can’t think of a better word at the moment.

Call me a sucker of a hero. I want to save you, and I haven’t given up.

 

_I’ve been loving you since you was a child_  
 _'Cause you and me are two of a kind._

Thousands of wanderers will walk that dusty road you walked. But I found you. I wiped the blood from your lashes. I made you believe you were more than a rag doll beaten by the wind and by brutish fists – or tried to. You haven’t looked like that rag doll in ages. You’re alive, thrumming beneath my fingers. And your green eyes are no longer brittle glass (except on certain days) but deep and swirling. Electric.

Dig your nails into my shoulders, dig in with all your desperation. I will help you pour out the dark that nearly drowned you. In return you’ll make me delight at your naked, perfect form, and all the tricks it holds. You’re a slender scandalous thing who make my peers look at me with new suspicion. I’m tainted by your life and lies now.

You’re a troublemaker. But the real trouble is that look in your mad electric eyes. The ones that taught me how your love is not a promise, but a roll of the dice. That’s how it is with tumbleweed children. And by loving one I have learnt to love like one.

In some ways we’re still travelling along that road. A road where the dice rolls with the wind, and the deuces are wild.

 

~


End file.
